You Don't Because You Can't Because No One Does
by AngelisIgniRelucent
Summary: Only he can sense the smile behind your mask, sense the – well, not contentment, but something not dissimilar – in your voice. He is so attuned to you, to your every move, that you can tell him the world without even moving your lips. WARNING: JANTO


**Only my second aver Torchwood fic, so be nice! Janto – kinda explicit-ish, but not really … disclaimer: I don't own. thank you to 'Maddie' for pointing out some stuff - it's true, Tosh does care (a bit), so i changed it to Gwen!**

Only he can sense the smile behind your mask, sense the – well, not _contentment_, but something not dissimilar – in your voice. He is so attuned to you, to your every move, that you can tell him the world without even moving your lips.

So he knows without you saying anything that something is wrong and that you are trying to hide it from him, but he also knows that, despite your attempts at concealing it, all you really want is for someone to ask you if you are alright and really _mean_ it. All you want is for _him_ to ask you if you're alright.

So he asks you to step into his office for a moment. It's just a show for the others, really. If you weren't obligated to these people to at least _seem_ normal, he wouldn't have said a thing, but you would have followed him just the same. You're pretty well attuned to him too, see.

So you follow him, blank-faced, silently drinking in the lithe sinuosity of his movement. He feels your hungry gaze so he straightens up his shoulders and exaggerates the movement of his hips, knowing exactly how to drive you wild.

And it does, it drives you wild, but to the casual observer, and even to the not-so-casual observers downstairs, you still seem as robotic and emotionless as usual. It satisfies you, in a slightly twisted way, that your mask works so effectively on everyone.

Well, everyone but Jack. He can see right through it, like it doesn't even exist, and that scares and excites you in equal measures – not that anybody ever sees that though.

As soon as you shut the door noiselessly behind you, he turns to face you, concern written all over his beautifully expressive face. 'Ianto,' he says, his voice low and deep, the fingers of one hand entwined in your hair and the other gently caressing your face, tracing the angle of your cheekbone so tenderly that you almost start to believe that he cares.

Almost.

But then you remember who you are. Ianto Jones: tea-boy and quick-shag, perpetually useless and second best. And you remember that nobody cares - how can they? - so you retreat back under the mask which was slowly beginning to melt under the intensity of Jack's gaze.

'What's wrong, baby?' he whispers, recognising the deer-caught-in-headlights look in your eyes, but all you can focus on is the feeling of his breath fanning across your face, at his proximity, at his scent: gun oil and whisky and virility.

His assault on your senses loosens the mask in a different way - it doesn't attack it like his piercing, cerulean stare, rather it undoes the ties, it gently coaxes it away from you with shallow, empty promises of something more, something better.

And you just let it go. You're powerless in the face of such beauty, so you just let it go.

And, as attuned to you as he is, he feels it, and the smile his face breaks into makes your breathing stutter and your heart skip a beat.

'Jack,' you breathe, so quietly you almost don't hear it, 'it hurts, Jack.' And he hears the agony in your words, so he holds you – he crushes you to him with a passion only he could contain – and you stay like that for God knows how long, the roughness of his coat soaking up your tears and comforting you with its very presence.

When your tears have run dry, you look at him. You catch his gaze, a question burning with the intensity of the sun in your eyes. It's a simple question, but one filled with such meaning and heartbreak that Jack has nothing to say. The infamously wordy Jack Harkness is lost for words. Lost for words when faced with such a simple question –

'_Why?'_ And he knows that it's _'why does nobody care about me – why does nobody even see me?' _and it's '_why do you act like you care when you don't – and you don't because no one can –?'_

The silence is deafening, and his lack of response simply confirms what you already knew – that you _are_ a machine. That there's no point in even trying to be human because nobody cares about you enough to notice.

Even so, he drags you over to his bed in the bunker and he lays the both of you down, arranging your body like a mother would a child, making sure you're comfortable, trying to convey through his touch what he couldn't with his voice.

And you just lay there, the two of you, you curled up into Jack's body, and you don't talk because there's nothing to say, so you remember instead.

You remember last month, when Gwen had been updating the system and had sought you out. She'd spoken to you accusingly – _'why have your records changed? Your age was listed as 23 yesterday and today it's 24.' _'I am _human_!' you'd wanted to yell at her, 'I _age_. Just like everybody else! Because I'm just like everyone else! I'm _alive_, for Christ's sake, please notice that!' But all you'd said was _'it's my birthday today'_. She'd responded with an _'oh'_ and hadn't even had the decency to look abashed as she went back to work, not seeming to notice the lack of the 'happy birthday, Ianto' hanging in the air.

Or maybe it wasn't hanging in the air – it was just your imagination. Because you're just a machine, and machines don't have feelings to be hurt. Machines are only noticed when they go wrong. When you mess up, everyone takes it out on you a lot more than if any of the others had.

But when machinery is in perfect working order, it just blends into the background, it's taken for granted, because machines are _meant _to work perfectly. And if they don't, then they're pretty crap machines, aren't they?

When you do things right, nobody notices, because that's your function. You make their coffee perfectly every morning: sprinkles for Tosh, black for Owen and lots of froth for Gwen – exactly how they like it, but apparently a simple thank you is too much to ask.

For Jack you make it differently every morning – you can tell as soon as you see him whether he needs it strong or sweet, but you don't' mind that extra effort, because he gives you a thank you every time, and a little more if you're lucky.

You feel your body react to that last thought, and feel rather than see Jack's incredulous stare. You feel the rush of blood to your face and you know that you've turned a delicate shade of pink – the colour which Jack always says compliments your eyes perfectly. That's why he always tries to embarrass you in public – because he likes the colour you turn. It's kind of sweet, really, but more than a little annoying.

He smirks – he knows what you're thinking – and rolls so that he is on top of you, leaning down to brush your chapped lips with his perfect ones. Your body seems to have a mind of its own as you arch up in pleasure, moaning as he deepens the kiss.

Maybe you aren't entirely machine, you reason, because if you were then you wouldn't be able to feel, and if you couldn't feel, then you wouldn't be able to feel like _this_.

But then all reasoning goes out of the window, because suddenly you're shirtless, and so is Jack, and his hands on your body deny you the ability to think anything but his name, chanting it like a mantra in your head, _Jack, Jack, Jack_.

Your body is entirely submissive under his touch, and he knows exactly what you like – so he nibbles on your earlobe, he swirls his tongue in your navel – and you feel like a machine, but one that he has the remote to. And he knows exactly which buttons to press.

You slither down, unbuckling his belt, your mouth already in position, but he stops you, gripping both of your wrists in one hand and pulling your face back up to his level. 'No', he whispers, his voice husky with desire, 'I want to make you feel good. God knows you deserve it.' And just feeling his hungry stare on your body, ravishing you with his eyes, makes you giddy with want.

'Jack!' his name comes out a strangled yelp as you feel him working down your trousers and boxers in one go, and then his hands are on you and you're in heaven.

Even the lightest brushes of his fingers are ecstasy, and his _lips_- oh! Your fingers automatically lock themselves in his hair, like a machine on autopilot, and you have absolutely no control over the sounds spilling from your mouth.

A mixture of needy whimpers, muffled shouts and groans of delight fill the room, bouncing off the walls and multiplying, overloading your senses. You climax is so immense that you're pretty sure you pass out somewhere in the middle of it, but then you're under the covers, Jack's body pressed against your back, his warmth seeping into you.

You can still feel his arousal, and you try and turn in his grip to take care of it – it's the least you could do – but his muscular arms prevent you from doing so. 'I can wait,' he murmurs into your hair, 'sleep, Ianto. Sleep, my love.'

And you do, you can't stop yourself. You're so exhausted, emotionally and physically, that as soon as you shut your eyes, you're dead to the world.

And when you wake up, the bed is cold and you're alone. You try desperately to think of an excuse for him, but all you can focus on is that Jack left before you woke up. He _never_ does that. Maybe he finally came to his senses, maybe he finally realised that you're a machine – not worth loving.

'Or maybe there was an emergency' a little, hopeful voice wheedles in your head, but the rational side of your brain quashes it painfully.

And you feel more alone than ever.

So you calmly redress yourself in last night's clothes, ensuring that your mask is in place and secure before leaving the room and going to make the coffees with a politely vacant expression fixed on your physiognomy.

**I know it's depressing, I'm sorry, but please review!  
>xx<strong>


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